So that was it! She was the object of--anticipation which had not been--rewarded. The color in her cheeks deepened. She recalled this question, that remark, made by George’s mother. She understood the curious look of suspense with which Mrs. Cutter frequently regarded her. She wished to remind her of a duty she owed the Cutter family. The meaning of it all was perfectly clear to her now. As if it was anybody’s business! She was indignant by this time. She began to shake one foot. Her eyes flew this way and that, like the wings of a distracted bird. She was really arguing fiercely with George’s mother, saying the things which we never dare to say in fact. She flounced, bobbing up and down on the springs beneath her, set her impatient foot down, closed her lips firmly and looked really fierce. Evidently she was getting the better of this argument, chiefly, no doubt, because Mrs. Cutter was not there. Suddenly she lifted her left hand, counted the fingers and in turn used up all the fingers of her right hand in this triumphant enumeration. Yes, she had been married exactly ten months. Not a year yet. Why was everybody in such a hurry, even her mother? Then something happened. She became very still, as you do sometimes when the future, which always keeps its bright back to you, suddenly turns around and permits you to behold the face of the years to come. The color faded from her cheeks; her eyes widened into a look of terror. She gave a gasp and buried her face in the pillow. Oh, God, oh, her Father in heaven, suppose it should always be like this! Suppose she lived to be an old woman and never had a child. Doing just the same things over, alone in the house. Nothing to look forward to all day except George’s return at the end of it. And nothing for him to expect except herself coming from the kitchen to welcome him and hurrying back again, lest something burned or boiled over if she delayed a moment. What would she be in her husband’s house if she did not become a mother to his children? She sprang to her feet and tore off the pink apron she was wearing over her summer frock. “I shall be a servant, nothing else,” she cried, tidying her hair before the mirror. “I shall grow old and gray; my skin will be yellow and, if I don’t--if we do not have children, I shall begin presently to look like a good servant, the kind that never gives notice, but just stays on and dies in the family. Oh!” She flew back to the bed, cast herself upon it and wept aloud to the ceiling.